


oh the best it could be (just you and i)

by withkissesfour



Category: Janet King (TV)
Genre: F/F, Tumblr Prompt, unadulterated fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 08:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withkissesfour/pseuds/withkissesfour
Summary: She likes the way it doesn’t fit her well enough, hangs loose in the wrong places - pulls tight in others. She likes that it smells like Janet, like coffee, ink, perfume that has settled on the shirt and outlasted washes. She likes that it will smell like her now, a little at least, likes that Janet might think about her, when she wears it. She feels cobbled together, different versions of her (cop, girlfriend, lesbian, daughter, sister, friend) wrapped up in an untidy shirt. She feels like herself.





	oh the best it could be (just you and i)

She wakes with a start, to the crash ( _bang crash_ ) of the garbage truck outside, the high-pitched chirping of the late-rising bird, the low incessant tones of their phone alarm clocks, ringing the late hour, asking _snooze?_ She wakes with a start, and so does Janet - with a soft yelp, a quick jerk that makes Bianca’s head fall from its overnight place, above Janet’s breasts, below Janet’s shoulder. 

 _Sorry,_ she intones, low and sleep heavy, before groping blindly for her phone, squinting at the time, a stream of expletives ( _shit-shit-shit_ ) tangling around her tongue as she hurls the covers off, throwing them against Bianca - who is stretched long like a cat, whose mouth is wide in a yawn.

‘We’re gonna be so _late’._

She stumbles out of the room, and Bianca can hear her soft urgent tones as she wakes up the twins, as she pulls open cupboards, rummages around for uniforms; and she’s not sure what to do. They had a routine. They decided it was too early, and she would introduce Bianca to the kids properly, explain everything, when she thought the time was right. When they were ready. They had a plan, and it had worked well for weeks, when Bianca stayed over.

    ( _Dinner. Milk. Teeth. Put the kids to bed. Stay up later. Wine. News. Small talk. Kiss her in the kitchen while you do the dishes. Kiss her in the corridor. Kiss her against the wall of her bedroom - fumbling with the crooked hooks on her bra. Wake up early. Leave quietly.)_

But she’s not sure what to do now, is a little frozen in the early (late) morning light that filters through the crack in the blind. 

She eyes the door, eyes the time, decides she might as well roll with her mistake. She picks up the clothes, strewn across their floor, bra discarded on the bathroom tiles, shoe kicked somewhere far underneath the bed, their pants tangled together near the closet. She remembers a haze of red wine, now, with the soft beat of her sore head. She remembers sloppy, happy, spaghetti sauce kisses, pressed up against the messy wooden kitchen bench, now. She remembers, as she picks up her blouse, the way Janet laughed (muffled, affectionate) as she undid the buttons, as she peeled off her shirt, a splatter of dinner, of wine, of dessert, across the crinkled blue fabric. 

She discards it, in the laundry basket, feeling a little domestic, a little desperately _happy,_ at the thought of the clothes (hers and Janet’s and the kids) wrapped around each others in the washing machine. She feels a little at home, a little scared of how much she likes it, as she picks through the closet, pulls out a shirt. She tucks it into her pants, lets it hide the tattoo which paints the expanse of her hip, hopes Janet won’t miss it for the day. 

-

If Janet notices, she doesn’t say anything; as she hurries the kids down the stairs, as Bianca packs the lunches into their bags. They’re pleased to see her, don’t ask why she’s here still, and though Janet looks a little on edge, ready to pounce in with an explanation. she _beams_ at Bianca when Liam bounds towards her, takes her hand. 

If Janet notices, she doesn’t say a word about the blouse, which hangs a little differently on her body - across her wider chest, her shorter waist; which gapes when she leans over (the seatbelt biting into her hip) to kiss her. She just responds in kind, soft, tender pressure against her mouth, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, telling her to have a _great day,_ telling her she’ll see her tonight, _if you like?_ Janet doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t seem to care - doesn’t seem give it a second thought - giving her a quick wave before she pulls away.

But Bianca thinks about it. 

She spills coffee on it almost immediately. She spills some of her latte, the smallest spot on the lapel, hardly noticeable - and her desk mate wonders why her brow furrows over it, why her mouth tightens over it. She dabs at it furiously, stands back in the bathroom to appraise her mess. 

There is a water stain, which swallows the coffee stain, which blotches the area just below her collarbones, just between her breasts. There is a thread loose on her shoulder, and the sleeves hang a little long, hide her palms, the hem playing at her knuckles; and she likes every part of it.

 She likes the way it doesn’t fit her well enough, hangs loose in the wrong places - pulls tight in others. She likes that it smells like Janet, like coffee, ink, perfume that has settled on the shirt and outlasted washes. She likes that it will smell like her now, a little at least, likes that Janet might think about her, when she wears it. She feels cobbled together, different versions of her ( _cop, girlfriend, lesbian, daughter, sister, friend)_ wrapped up in an untidy shirt. She feels like herself. 

-

Her day turns horrid, quickly, long and exhausting - and she watches the clock slip past five, past six. She’s strung tight, bone tired and aching, by the time she fumbles for the key in her pocket ( _if you need it,_ Janet had said, with a grin, holding it out to her), by the time she stumbles inside the house. She follows the sound of muffled, happy conversation to the kitchen - where the twins sip at their milk, where Janet leans over the table, with a grin, in her track pants. 

Bianca pauses at the stairs, works something like a smile onto her face, before she rounds the corner. Emma jumps from her chair, propels herself towards Bianca, arms reaching around her waist before she leans back, stares up at her.

‘You and mummy kiss, right?’

Janet’s choking on her wine, spluttering in the kitchen, and Bianca moves forward with Emma, skirting the bench to rub Janet’s back. She’s a little breathless still, when she turns to the twins.

‘What?’

‘We saw you kissing last week on the couch’, Emma says, perched back up on the bar stool, hands clasped, brow furrowed. She’s serious, like her mother - like Janet - her blonde curls tucked behind her ear, interrogation underway as she peers at the two of them, leaning against each other on the opposite side of the bench. Liam snickers, nods along. ‘Are you girlfriends?’

Bianca bites her lip, her stomach in knots but her heart very full, and she moves a little closer to Janet when she swallows hard - runs a finger over the tense muscle of her bicep. 

‘Well - yes. We are’, she pauses, smiles, leans forward, ‘ Do you wanna ask us anything?’

‘No, that’s fine - we like Bee’, Liam says, jumps down and tugs at his sister’s arm (while she squints at the two of them) until she jumps down too. There is a crash, bang as they race towards the stairs, and Janet turns to Bianca, a long breath out, opening her mouth to speak when Emma races back, tugs at her pants. Janet bends down.

‘You still love mum though, right?’ she asks, careful, quiet; and Bianca thinks about the frame which sits on the bedside table in the twins’ bedroom - the way she smiles as she turns her head towards the camera. 

‘I’ll always love your mum’, Janet answers, low and soft; and Emma’s face lightens, throwing a grin in Bianca’s direction as she runs off, to catch up to her brother. 

-

There are tears, that pool in the corners of Janet’s eyes, and she blows out a heavy sigh as she turns to Bianca - tangles her fingers in the loops of her belt, lets her head fall against her chest. 

‘You did good’, Bianca mumbles, against shower-wet hair, a smile settling (genuine) on her lips when she feels Janet smile against the material on the hill of her breast, when she hears her muffled _bad day?_

 _‘_ Better now.’

She can feel Janet’s grin grow wider, feels her mouth move upwards - skimming the hem of the lapel, finding the skin in between, to kiss the hollow of her neck, the column of her neck, the curve of her jaw.

‘Suits you’, she says. She plays, absent-mindedly, with the sleeve that hangs long over Bianca’s hand, tugs at the buttons, rolls it up, rolls it down. ‘You should wear it all the time.’


End file.
